


Occupational Hazards

by Argyle



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Surprise Cameo, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A person can't live on Jaffa Cakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupational Hazards

"A person can't live on Jaffa Cakes, Danny."

"Like I'd limit myself! There's a whole package of pink wafers in the cupboard."

Angel sighs. "And I suppose they're left over from the time you lost your keys down the toilet."

"That's an urban legend," says Danny, coming up behind Angel to stare into the nearly-empty refrigerator. "It was actually just _a_ key."

"Oh?"

"To the riot room. See, DS Wainwright was holding a bear in there for questioning. Poor fucker'd had a bad time with the circus come to Sandford three days earlier - you know, they'd been feeding it marmalade and stale flour for years - so Doris asked if they had a license for it. _They_ said they didn't know they needed one. She set 'em straight, sent them packing for cruelty to animals and suchlike."

"Oh," says Angel. He knows he shouldn't inquire after the bear. No good will come of it. But there's a glint in Danny's eye, a gleam enhanced by the fickle light which pours from the fridge and casts his corneas in salmon, and he fixes Angel with the sort of grin generally reserved for the promotion of a product best used twice daily. He clears his throat, and then: "So, what happened--"

"To Bozzy? That's what the bear was called," Danny continues. "Couldn't salvage the key, and that room's sealed tighter than a bucket of moon rocks. Eventually, the fire brigade came round and pulled it through the window, but wouldn't you know, its big hairy arse got stuck in the frame. They had to dismantle the wall from the outside, brick by brick."

"Truly awful," Angel manages. "And that was how long ago?"

Danny shrugs. "Year, year and a half."

"Right."

"Wafers take two to go off."

"Wafers it is."

Danny grunts affably and pulls an armful of Holland's finest from the bottom shelf, swings forward, and knees the door closed. Without pause, Angel follows him to the sofa.

The telly's waiting for them like a thief in the night.

"So," Angel says around the lip of his beer once they've settled. "What's showing?"

"Just you wait!" Danny half-salutes with the remote, and then flicks on the system.

There's a pause. The speakers thrum; the screen flickers.

And then in perfect Dolby precision, the room shakes with the opening strains of "Summer in the City," out and through the bustling streets of Manhattan, down and amidst the cabs and cars and teeming swell of humanity.

For a moment, it's almost idyllic, but oh, soon enough the landscape shakes with a forceful blast and a department store meets its maker. Smoke billows out from shattered windows and bricks plummet into the street, and it's only a matter of time before Bruce Willis manages his inevitable tumble into the frame.

Angel can almost feel the ash on the backs of his hands; he looks down to see that Danny has sprinkled pink wafer-dust across his lap. Ah.

"Is this--" he pauses to consider his options. Heroic grumbling about aches and pains? Check. Pre-millennial skyline? Check. Eloquent use of metaphor? Double check. "Er. _Die Hard_?"

" _With a Vengeance_!"

Angel nods. Not bad.

***

"So they're just going to let Jeremy Irons--"

"--Simon--"

"--this Simon chap drag them around by their noses for the rest of the film?" Angel asks, cracking open his sixth beer without tearing his eyes from the screen. Samuel L. Jackson's busy yapping into an oversized walkie-talkie as Willis guesstimates the weight of water. Irons chews scenery like it's _foie gras_ mashed with diamonds, and then a building blows up.

The whole thing's not entirely lacking in charm.

"They're being blackmailed," Danny explains with exaggerated clarity. "Can't be helped."

"The point being?"

"It's all about dramatic tension. See, McClane killed Simon's brother in the first film, and Simon's consumed by ten years' worth of pent-up rage and shit. He's German! He's capable of anything."

"'Anything' here meaning 'exhibiting an alarming attraction to shiny metal'?"

"Solid gold bars," Danny corrects, tossing his can in the general direction of the bin. "There's a subtle difference."

"Okay," says Angel. "Okay, but it still seems a bit daft. And why would Simon's minions be so faithful? Clearly he's no head for progressive, equal opportunity employment."

"They're not in it for auxiliary compensation."

"No life insurance?"

Danny wedges his nearest elbow into Angel's ribcage. "Nick!"

"Fringe benefits, then."

***

As far as wakeup calls go, Angel's had worse.

Of course, he only makes this assessment after he's spit out a mouthful of Danny's t-shirt, unwound his arm from round Danny's trunk, and peeled himself from Danny's sofa, but the sunlight's quite warming as it falls across Angel's face, pooling at his throat.

It's the phone that really does it, though. DC Cartwright blows smoke into the other end of the line, only to pass the receiver to DS Wainwright to do the very same. Then Sergeant Fisher's mumbling about a cow being stuck in the steeple, and Angel feels the call to duty.

"Up," Angel says, tapping a hand on Danny's knee, and holds a steaming mug of coffee before Danny's face. "C'mon."

"Ngk."

"It's after seven, Danny."

"Jesus." Danny gathers his wits enough to sip the coffee tentatively before swallowing down the lot. "Did you stay the night?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. You know, before he got locked up, my dad mentioned your cottage," Danny says slowly, and rubs his hand against the upholstery marks which battenburg his cheek. "It'll be ready in a fortnight. Far cry from the lap of luxury you've experienced here--" he yawns gapingly "--but to chew on the brains of St. Romero, there comes a time in every man's life--"

"Your flat is appalling, Danny."

"'Cause I don't have enough plants? What about that Wotsit Flytrap I bought at Skinner's last month?"

"The one you fed beefburger and Cornetto nibs?"

"Yeah."

"I buried it in the garden."

***

It's midday, partly cloudy with a high of 18° C and a thirty-five percent change of precipitation after six. A talk-radio programme about fig trees filters dimly through the car, and Angel adjusts a knob on the radar gun.

 _A Saab drifts by at 29._

Danny's off visiting his father. When Angel asked whether he wanted company, Danny didn't quite say no, though he might as well have: for a moment, his mouth had twitched into a smile, but then he shrugged and pressed a hand to Angel's shoulder. One of them had to keep an eye on Sandford, he'd said.

 _A Volkswagen slides through at 24._

Angel wonders whether the shop has restocked their ice cream counter.

 _A ruby-red Yamaha bike trundles past at 38._

His hand working smoothly on the stick, Angel shifts the car into the street and belts after it. One: sirens. Two: strobes. Three: a menacing glare.

The biker decelerates and rolls to a stop by the verge, only to roll forward again, stopping and starting several times before the tailpipe pops and puffs out a wisp of smoke. The rider shakes his head, removes his helmet, and then tilts the bike to the side.

"Sir," says Angel, flipping to a clean page in his notebook. His boots make satisfying clicks on the damp tarmac; the rider looks over his shoulder expectantly. "You were going 38 in a 30 zone."

"Ah," says the rider. "I think the engine's seized."

The rider who is Jeremy Irons.

There's a grimace threatening to work its way across Angel's features. He takes a deep breath, tries to steady his hands, but here it comes. Damn.

"Can I give you a ride into Sandford?" he asks slowly. "You might ring a mechanic."

After a long pause, Irons nods and slides into the passenger seat.

Angel wonders whether he ought to invite his traveling companion to a friendly round of anagrams, but then says, lamely, "Er. I quite enjoy your work."

It's small talk. It's normal. He would have to said the same thing to Pete Doherty last year when he picked him up for lewd conduct in a public phone box, but Doherty couldn't be bothered to do anything but vomit his way to the custody van.

Irons arches a brow. "Thank you."

"Especially the bigger pictures. The longer ones."

"Yes?"

"Um." Angel's brow knits; his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Don't say _Die Hard_ , he urges silently. Don't say _Die Hard_. Then what? Was that him in _Lord of the Rings_? Couldn't be. What about the one about the randy midshipmen? He mentally peruses Danny's DVD collection, only to come up with _Cool Hand Luke_ and an empty crisp package. Oh, hell. If Danny were here-- Enough. He clears his throat. " _Brideshead Revisited_."

"Oh." For a moment, Irons looks like Bruce Willis has broken through the inner door of his secret Hudson-side sanctum, guns blazing, just as the Impenetrable Master Plan made it off the ground. In other words, genuinely taken aback. "Yes," he says. "I enjoyed making that one."

"Which scenes did you enjoy making?"

"Which scenes did you enjoy watching?"

Angel shudders. "The scene in Venice?" he reaches.

"Mm. Have we missed the turning?"

"Just a shortcut. I thought you might enjoy the village's rustic aesthetic over the outer motorway."

Irons doesn't even make an attempt to hide his displeasure.

Angel turns up the radio.

Twenty-five minutes later, they roll to a stop in front of the Swan. "I don't know how I shall ever repay you," Irons says with the sound of honey dripping through a dry creek bed, and unfolds himself from the cab.

"Think nothing of it," Angel replies. "I only accept payment in solid gold bricks."

***

"You didn't!" Danny's hunched over, all shallow breath and shaking limbs, roaring his amusement to the foot of his locker. Saxon barks loudly from the low vantage of his beanbag chair on the other side of the room.

"I did," Angel admits. He finishes buttoning his shirt, pulls at his collar, and shrugs on his jacket. "Sure I did."

"And he just threw down the gauntlet?"

"Yeah."

"And you tossed it back! That's off the fuckin' charts!"

"I'm sorry, is this conversation going somewhere?"

"Straight into the _Citizen_ , I should think."

"You wouldn't."

"Come on, Nick. You'll thank me later," Danny says. And then: "Pub?"


End file.
